


A Meat-Free Meet-Cute

by rosie_berber



Series: Tuesday Topsy Turvy Tropes! [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Dean Winchester, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, His Voice Sounds Like That in the Morning, Inspired by Cockles, Librarian Castiel, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Porn with Feelings, Straight-Edge, Vegan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would Dean Winchester be without bacon cheeseburgers, beer, pie and coffee? Would he still be the sort of guy who can't seem to draw his eyes away from a certain blue-eyed beauty? In this short little fic, Dean is vegan, Cas is straight-edge, and they go on a very cute first date. Because there are bonds beyond beef. Other bad puns about meat and sausages and sexy times. </p><p>Comes from the idea that it would be fun to invert certain beloved Destiel tropes and see where it leads these characters (hint: it's still to fall madly in love with one another!) </p><p>Update: I now have a <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I don't know how to use it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meat-Free Meet-Cute

**Author's Note:**

> Had posted a draft of this accidentally earlier and when I went to edit I inadvertently deleted! I am the worst. 
> 
> This was fun to play with and led to unexpectedly gushy smushy feelings! I'm going to challenge myself to do a few of these and see what comes out.

   If there is one thing Dean Winchester believes in at his core, it is that meat is murder. And so when his impromptu date had suggested they meet up at a vegan restaurant, he immediately scored some dairy-free, egg-free brownie points with Dean. To be honest, he wasn’t sure what had compelled him to swipe right - in the few pictures _babyinatrenchcoat_ had posted on his profile (there _had_ to be a story with that username), he looked just like a weird, dorky little guy. He seemed to be wearing the same suit, tie and aforementioned jacket in each and every photo, looking puzzled and lost in most. It didn’t even seem like he could smile properly - he was all gums when he grinned. But there was something about Castiel - that was the baby’s real name, he quickly learned - that made him want to know more.

  
   And so on this Tuesday afternoon, Dean finishes his shift a little early at Singer Automotives, so he has enough time to go home to shower and change. Stripping from his grease-covered jumpsuit as soon as he walks through the door, Dean quickly makes his way to the bathroom, longing for the water to wash away the grime of another day’s work. The water rushes over the freckled expanses of his skin as Dean scrubs the sweat and oil from his limbs. He had been fiddling with the disgruntled carburetor of a 59 Thunderbird when Cas had messaged him. Its float valve continued to slowly hemorrhage under Dean’s neglect, interested more in accepting the impeccably typed text invitation to dinner than the health of the classic car. He’d gotten a full-bodied “idjit” out of Bobby for that one. By the time six o’clock rolled around, Bobby told him to get the hell out of his shop, to come back tomorrow with his head removed from his ass.

  
   When the last speck of dirt is swirling towards the drain, Dean’s callused fingers tighten the nozzles of the outdated shower of his apartment. He steps out, wiping at the fogged mirror when the visage of the strange man passes through his mind. For the entirety of the two minutes he takes to brush his teeth, he allows his mind to drift, to imagine those blue eyes behind him. The image is a bit shocking, but as the blood in his body passes towards a part of his anatomy now standing at attention beneath his towel, he admits to himself, it’s the good sort of shocking. Ever the pragmatist, not wanting to get ahead of himself, he quickly shakes his head, excess water flying off his sandy blonde hair towards the walls, visions of Castiel cast aside for the time being. He takes one last look in the mirror, debating whether or not to shave, hoping Castiel is the sort of guy who doesn’t mind a little peach fuzz.

  
   His fingers are soon traversing through a collection of plaid that is the stuff of a shopaholic lumberjack’s dream. He finally settles on a soft purple plaid with grey slacks, passing himself in a mirror on his way out. _Shit. Already 6:45_. He hurries to his Impala, pleasantly surprised how eager he is to make it to his destination.

* * *

  
    Castiel Novak was passing another largely eventless afternoon in the special collections stacks of the university library. He had no appointments scheduled for professors or researchers to sit with one of the precious books, and so he found himself without a distraction to avoid the task of writing his lecture on illuminated texts and the occult. He picked up his phone, opening the dating app just for the hell of it. A few unremarkable profiles had him swiping left without hesitation, until he came across a stunning pair of green eyes attached to an impossibly handsome man. Castiel’s fingers wanted to move to the right, but he himself doubted if it was a meaningful gesture - someone that beautiful, that perfect, couldn’t possibly want to spend an evening with him. _Could he_?  So deep was his doubt that when the app informed him that they were indeed interested in one another, Castiel suddenly felt as if his body was not his own - as if his essence was suspended in mid-air, looking down at an empty vessel, devoid of life.

  
  
    He panicked as he scoured the details of Impala67’s profile. Dean Winchester. It was a good name. His pictures began to put the pieces together - one from last year’s pride parade, with the man marching as part of a local LGBTQ advocacy group. A candid shot of him building a home as part of a Habitat for Humanity team. A ridiculously cute photo of him with BBQ sauce splattered across his face, cocky smile unobscured by the sticky substance with the caption “in vegan heaven.” The pictures told a story of who he was, not just another pretty face (although he was very, very pretty), but a _righteous man_. And so, like a man possessed, Castiel turned off his brain which was yelling all sorts of things like “he’s out of your league!” and “how is he still single?” and “I would really like to clean that condiment off of your face with my tongue” to send the man a casual greeting.

  
  
    “Good morning. It seems we are interested in one another. Perhaps we could arrange to meet one another?” _Too formal_. “You are very good-looking and I would very much enjoy engaging in some degree of sexual intercourse with you.” _Too forward_. Castiel racked his brain for a colloquialism fitting such a circumstance as sending his first message on a dating website, on which his obnoxious older brother had made him a profile that he hadn’t even bothered to improve. After a half-hour of hemming and hawing, Castiel finally settles on the simplest of greetings. _“Hello, Dean.”_

 

* * *

  
    When the second hand, which seems to be mocking Castiel with how slowly it moves towards the peak of the clock, finally hits 12, Castiel nearly trips over himself to lock the library doors. He had foolishly agreed to meet Dean right after work at a vegan restaurant he had quickly Googled that he hoped Dean would feel comfortable at. He rushed through his closing tasks, catching himself almost filing some Milton scholarship with the Marquis de Sade (what an awkward pairing that would be). After he has done the most half-assed clean-up in the history of half-assed clean-ups, Castiel grabs his coat and heads out. 6:30. A half-hour to catch a bus to meet at the restaurant.

  
  
   Castiel full on sprints an entire block to catch the bus to his destination, out of breath when he feeds his change down to pay the fare. He makes his way to a vacant seat, combing his wild hair to the best of his ability with his fingers, cursing himself that he was going to show up to this date with freshly fucked hair. That’s a good look at the end of the night, not at the start.

  
  
      The driver’s door of the Impala shuts at precisely 7:00. Dean feels a sense of accomplishment akin to a knight slaying a dragon in his punctuality, knowing precisely what side streets to take to make it across town in fifteen minutes. That is, until he looks at his phone, and reads the message from Castiel, informing he had already gotten a table for two. He quickly makes his way through the restaurant, all glass and green, seeing the nervous looking man sitting at a table. _Poor guy looks like an accountant about to have a nervous breakdown_ , Dean thinks. Dean smiles towards the man, who stands to meet him eye-to-eye, an inch or two shorter than Dean is himself.

  
     “That's pretty nice timing, Cas,” the impromptu nickname falling from Dean’s lips before he gets a chance to stop it, even though he's sure it’s way too early to be so cute with an almost complete stranger.

  
      “We had an appointment.”

  
     The first thing Castiel notices about his date is that he has the sort of smile that could turn on an inanimate object.

  
     The second thing Castiel notices about his date is the way in which his eyes seem to do a disservice to the rich plush greens currently surround them in the forms of various shrubbery and plants and flowers.

  
     The third thing Castiel notices about his date is that he doesn’t turn around and walk back out the door when he sees Castiel sitting there, clearly frazzled and nervous and absolutely clueless how to go on a date with someone who looks like a demi-god.

  
     All things considered, a pretty good start.

* * *

  
   It was when they were sharing an order of squash blossoms that Dean spotted the sXe tattoo on Castiel’s wrist, the owner admitting he had been straight-edge his entire life. He felt far more vehement about the lifestyle when he got the ink scrawled into his skin when he was seventeen, but to this day, no alcohol or drugs had ever gone into his system. The way Dean’s eyes lingered on the veins of his forearm spread pink across Cas’s cheeks.

  
   It was right after Castiel insisted Dean try some of his raw zucchini pasta that he learned that Dean’s little brother was the most important person on the planet to him. He had recently started practicing law out west, but Dean still talked to him every day. When Dean talked about Sam, the green in his eyes was absolutely luminescent.

  
   It was when Castiel denied Dean’s offer of some of his spicy Thai noodles that Dean learned the other man was allergic to peanuts. Dean felt his heart rate at the prospect of Castiel in anaphylaxis, not wanting any harm to come the other man’s way.

  
   It was when they were debating over dessert - a raw banana “cream” pie or coconut milk ice cream that Castiel learned Dean didn't care for the former - watching Sammy eat three slices in one sitting on his seventh birthday only to splatter its remains in the backseat on the ride home from the restaurant had forever turned him off to the dish. Castiel thought he could listen to the over-the-top laugh Dean exuded all day.

  
    It was when their server offered coffee they learned they both abstained from caffeine. Both of them sank, just a little, at the euphemism for extending the night just a bit further being a foregone possibility.

  
    It was when Dean mentioned that he did have an extensive collection of herbal teas at his apartment that the two could continue their conversation over that Castiel felt as if he was flying, weightless, without a care in the world.

  
    It was then when he asked for the check.

* * *

  
    The two men perform the awkward let’s-move-this-date-somewhere-more-private-dance outside the restaurant.

  
    “So, follow me in your car?” Dean advances the question in the direction of his date, hoping the ecstatic butterflies flapping through his stomach weren’t audible.

  
    “Actually, I took the bus…” Castiel doesn’t know why, but the admission that he arrived by public transit seems like a confession of sorts.

  
    “Well that solves that. I can drive? I’m parked right over there,” Dean gestures towards his pride and joy with one hand, bravely taking Castiel’s into the other, as if the other man could not possibly get there without a guide. He nearly regrets it, until Castiel just holds the hand tighter.

  
    “That sounds perfect.”

  
    It takes fifteen minutes to get to Dean’s house, but to Castiel, it seems like eons. They make small-talk about their jobs and friends and interests, they travel across the entirety of the polite-first-date-talk territory together. But as Castiel details his beekeeping hobby and his obnoxious older brother who he loves ever so dearly, all he can think about are Dean’s lips. Plump, juicy lips that he would like to be doing far more interesting things than discussing his friend’s LARPING obsession as of late. It takes all of his sense of decorum to not risk a serious traffic accident and leap across his seat onto Dean, to put those lips to much better use. He banishes the thought, convinced Dean is not the kind of guy who would welcome such an aggressive action.

  
   Dean is precisely the kind of guy who would welcome such an aggressive action, but alas, the two manage to make it to his apartment complex without swerving off the road. No DWL (driving while lustful). As Dean turns off the ignition, he tells Castiel to wait a minute. _He’s changed his mind,_ Castiel fears. _He’s come to his senses, looked in the mirror, realized he looks like that and I’m this awkward little mess. I probably have kale in my teeth and have been spitting when I’m talking._ Castiel obsesses over every mistake he is sure he’s made throughout the course of their evening when he is rudely interrupted by his car door opening without his prompting. _He got out to open the door for me._

  
   “Chivalry’s not dead, you know,” Dean jokes, extending his hand towards the still seated man, the shock clearly visible across his face. The two manage to walk hand in hand until they reach the apartment. Dean extends his hand to the front door, unlocking it and welcoming Castiel inside.

  
   “Can I take your coat?” Dean asks, positioning himself behind Castiel, needlessly helping the perfectly capable man take the canvas armour off, enclosing it on a hanger in a closet.

  
   “Make yourself at home. I’ll go put on the kettle.” Dean clearly feels comfortable playing host, far more domestic than Castiel would have imagined a flannel-clad mechanic could be. He quickly surveys the small but warm apartment - vintage western posters, a bookcase almost entirely filled with the best science fiction ever written, a record collection that spans an entire wall. There are some framed photographs on the mantel - Castiel assumes of family and friends. He wants to study each and every thing in this room, these artifacts of what make Dean Winchester the extraordinary man making him an ordinary cup of tea on this otherwise ordinary Tuesday night.

  
    Castiel has finally calmed his nerves enough to sit casually (he tried several positions out and selected the one that appeared the most ‘natural’) when Dean emerges from the kitchen around the corner, a ceramic mug steaming in each hand.

  
    “Jing whole rosebuds in my left, lemon, ginger and echinacea on my right. Which do you want to try first?”

  
    “Wow, you weren’t kidding. You actually did want to show off your tea to me?”

  
    “All part of my elaborate seduction. My tea connoisseurship is just step one in a rather long process that will end in you falling head over heels for me,” Dean boasts. Castiel couldn’t know it, but the slight twitch that accompanied the declaration was a sign that Dean was only mostly joking.

  
    “I bet. Let the wooing begin.” Castiel helps Dean settle the cups on coasters on the coffee table.

  
    Dean grabs Castiel squarely by the shoulders with his face adopting a mock-serious look. “If you think you’re ready.”

  
    Castiel will not be outdone. Donning his best doe eyes, craning his neck ever so slightly to the left, clasping both of his hands across his heart, he seals the deal with a line that leaves Dean speechless. “Dean, I was made to fall for you.”

  
    Dean does the only thing he can think to do in response. He kisses Castiel’s lips firmly, secretly hoping the sarcasm masks the sincere.

* * *

  
    When Castiel pulls back from his first kiss with Dean, he’s pretty sure he’s been doing it wrong his whole life. The kisses he has had before haven’t left him feeling as if every nerve ending in his body has been charged at once. It was chaste, soft, inquisitive, and it was perfect. When their lips separate, he finds relief in the black saucers in Dean’s eyes, a perfect match for his own.

  
    They don’t kiss again, at least, not right away. They share the two cups of tea, taking tentative sips to make sure they do not scald their tongues (both would hate for those body parts to be injured so early in the evening). They curl into one another, Dean wrapping his arm around Castiel’s form, Castiel running his fingers along the side of Dean’s neck. Castiel mourns when the last drop is expended, knowing it is time for him to depart.

  
    “I should go…” he whispers into Dean’s chest, as if he is talking directly to Dean’s heart.

  
    Dean doesn’t respond immediately, carefully planning his next move.

  
   “Please, don’t.” Dean lifts Castiel’s chin so their eyes can meet, once again letting his actions do the brunt of his work.

* * *

  
   Before long Castiel has, inexplicably, found himself straddling Dean, diving towards his mouth, which still tastes sweet, like roses and lemons, devouring each new inch of skin like a man ravaged by hunger. Not that Dean’s complaining - he actually hums in appreciation when Castiel goes to work on the crook of his neck. And when Cas works up the nerve to tenderly nip and suck at that spot? Dean’s gone. He grips Castiel tight and raises him from the couch, fumbling towards his bedroom.

  
   “You okay with this?” Dean asks as he carefully marches down the narrow hallway.

  
   Castiel neglects Dean’s neck only long enough to respond.

  
   “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  
  Before long, the floor of Dean’s bedroom is littered. Two pairs of shoes, two pairs of socks, two pairs of slacks, a flannel, a dress shirt, a suit jacket, a tie whose blue hues paled in comparison to Cas’s eyes. The only thing between Dean and the heavenly creation that is Cas’s naked form is thin cotton boxers, from which he is more than happy to liberate him. He returns the favour in full, throwing his own boxer briefs to a corner of the room and then, just for a moment, pauses, taking in how much has happened in only a few hours. But what pulses through his body at this moment isn’t undiscerning lust, but rather, absolute infatuation with the strange, intoxicating being that is now beneath him.

  
   It is that more-than-lust that compels Dean to meet Castiel’s eyes, still bright blue even in the darkness of the bedroom. He plunges into a kiss with the other man, rutting his naked firmness against his. His fingers fold into Cas’s, gently pinning his arms over his head as he pushes the weight of his body into the other man’s, over and over and over again. Every molecule in Dean’s body seems to be reduced to a single instinct: _make him happy_ . And so, bittersweet as it may be, his lips depart Cas’s, moving their way down his chest, down his abdomen, seeking his space of bliss. On their travels downward, Dean’s fingers trace invisible patterns into this perfect canvas of skin, held in rapture by the bones protruding from Castiel’s firm form. When he first gently licks at the head of Castiel’s cock, a soft flick at the slit panting at his head, he coaxes an impure whimper that shames the greatest symphonies. As his hands dig into Castiel’s thighs, he begins to paint stripes up his length, the first strokes of his masterpiece.

  
   Dean can only withhold the full warmth of his mouth so long, a particularly excruciating whine that leaves Castiel’s lips compelling him to take the plunge, forcing himself down so that his lips make contact with the base of Castiel’s perfection. He repeats the motions several times over, when Castiel pleads for him to stop.

  
   Dean manages to ask through swollen lips if something is wrong. He doesn’t know if he can bear the response.

  
   “I want to … too” Castiel quickly relays, gesturing for Dean to do a 180, for their mouths to work in harmony with one another.

  
   Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice, planting his feet against the headboard, hovering over Castiel, allowing himself the warm relief Castiel’s mouth so willingly provides.

* * *

   
   The two find their rhythm, working almost as one entity to bring each other closer and closer to the edge. When Castiel places a hand on the small of Dean’s back, inviting him to dive deeply into his mouth, it takes only seconds more for him to reach nirvana. He digs his fingers into Castiel’s thighs in recognition, still diligently attending to the task before him. It is within the throes of his own escape that he relentlessly works at Castiel, pushing him over the precipice. His heels dig into the mattress, desperately seeking stable ground. Even his toes, curling into the bedsheet, sing their praises as his sweet saltiness fills Dean’s mouth.

  
   After each drop has been savoured, Dean rearranges his body in the bed, enveloping Castiel in a tight embrace.

  
   “I’m glad you didn’t go.”

  
   “Me too.”

  
   Wrapped in one another, they fall asleep.

 

* * *

  
  
   The two wake the next morning with their limbs tangled in one another.

  
   “Morning, angel,” Dean mumbles sleepily.

  
   “Good morning indeed.” Castiel’s voice falters, his raspiness impossibly high-pitched.

  
   “You always sound like that in the morning?” Dean asks. _He couldn’t wait to find out._


End file.
